


(That's) Numberwang

by konacher7258



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic, Eating, Gen, John Winchester Being an Asshole, Medical Examination, Situational Humiliation, Weight Gain, fat!Dean, mobility issues, obesity, waddling porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 00:45:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5949663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/konacher7258/pseuds/konacher7258
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean celebrates his sixteenth birthday as well as another important milestone</p>
<p>(work includes header image)</p>
            </blockquote>





	(That's) Numberwang

1.  
On the day of his sixteenth birthday, Dean’s mother comes into his room to help him sit up in bed. She does that every day, except for days when he doesn’t care to sit up at all, but today she comes with a special treat. A full sheet cake, slathered in frosting and topped with candles shaped like a one and a six. She doesn’t light the candles, that would be a bit dangerous, but she does set the cake on Dean’s stomach. She places it right above his doughy breasts, on the part of his belly where his gut slopes up into a sprawling mass of flesh. When Dean opens his eyes, the cake will be facing him, tilted at an angle so that he can see the frosting piled on top of it.

Mary then begins to rub small circles into the mountain of belly fat, lightly at first and then building in pressure until she’s kneading and massaging. It doesn’t take long for Dean to rumble to wakefulness beneath her ministrations, humming pleasantly as he stretches. “Happy birthday, baby,” Mary smiles. She finishes the massage with a few light pats and straightens up, putting her hands on her hips. “You’ve got a surprise waiting for you.”

Dean finally opens his eyes, then breaks into a grin when he sees the cake. “Thanks, mom!” he exclaims. Immediately his hands are grabbing handfuls of cake and shoving them into his mouth, barely pausing to toss aside the candles. Dean has no regard for the mess he makes, both of his face and the bed, but Mary knows both are due to be washed anyways. It isn’t long before Dean’s inhaled the whole cake and resorts to licking the cardboard it came on, a ridiculous sight since he’s still flat on his back and tucked into bed. When he’s finished he sets the cardboard on the swell of his belly—where he always puts his dishes when he’s ready for Mary to take them—and sets to happily licking his fingers.

Mary dutifully picks up the cardboard and then the discarded candles, setting them aside. “Are you ready to sit up?” she asks.

Dean nods, still sucking on one fat finger. This has been the routine since he got too fat to sit up on his own. If it embarrasses him to need the help, he’s never shown it. In fact, sometimes Mary suspects that he actually enjoys being so huge and needing help for some things. But that just means her baby is happy, which is enough for her even if it’s not enough for John. Or Dean’s doctor.

They begin the difficult and arduous task of getting Dean into a sitting position. Mary heaves his gut off his thighs and pushes it towards his knees so that it’s not an obstacle to Dean as he struggles to push himself up. Once he’s upright Mary leaves Dean to rest while he prepares to hoist himself up from the edge of the bed. He can stand on his own, once he’s sitting with his mammoth belly in a less cumbersome position, but not without mustering a bit of strength.

By the time Dean waddles his way down the hall to the kitchen, Mary has cooked him a truly impressive breakfast.

2.  
Dean’s got himself planted in his custom-built armchair—the only one he fits in—while he enjoys a midmorning pie. It’s only been an hour since breakfast, or rather since he had digested enough to haul his bulk up from the table, but he’s more than ready for a pie. It makes him wonder what his weight is up to now. He was so close when he lumbered up onto the scale last week, and yet still a few pounds shy. Luckily he’s got an appointment scheduled for later today. Almost weekly doctor’s visits seem to make John feel like he’s doing something about Dean’s “weight problem” even if Dean just keeps getting fatter. With the pie gone, he shoves the tin onto the dome of his belly for Mary to collect and then spreads his palms over his expansive gut. He’s so soft and doughy, especially where flab spills over the arms of the chair, and yet he can feel the solid mass of food inside, his stomach stretched to capacity to hold everything he’s eaten in the mere hours he’s been awake. It’s no surprise he’s as huge as he is— and yet he can’t believe he still hasn’t hit that number. For some reason it seems to him that you can’t be really properly massive until you reach that weight. And Dean wants to get there more than anything. He presses his fingers contemplatively into the ball of his stomach, then calls for Mary to bring him something more to eat.

3.  
When John comes in from the garage, Dean knows it’s time to get ready for his doctor’s visit. John will probably have some lunch and take a shower before they leave, but Dean moves so slowly that he needs that time to get dressed and situated in the van.

Mary kisses the axle grease on John’s cheek and tells him there’s sandwiches in the fridge, then comes to collect Dean in the living room. She knows as well as he does that John’s temper demands he be ready to go as soon as John decides it’s time. First she cleans Dean up a bit, wiping food from his cheeks and brushing crumbs from his chest. Then she helps him scoot forward in the chair enough for him to be able to lever himself up. He begins the long and strenuous waddle to his room, where Mary will help him into huge sweatpants and a T-shirt. Once he’s clothed, he rests a bit on the bed while Mary puts his shoes on. Then the sound of John starting the shower means he needs to heave himself out to the van.

John hates seeing the way he moves, even though he's always telling Dean to exercise, so Dean knows it’s better to already be in the van when John comes out. Especially because John hates it most of all when he has to watch Dean being loaded into the van like he’s merely a heavy load of cargo. It makes him grouchy, and Dean knows he’ll be grouchy enough when he has to _un_ load Dean from the van and watch him waddle into the clinic. So Mary helps him onto the platform and raises the lift so he can squeeze into the van.

“Good luck, baby!” she says, cheerily blowing him a kiss before going back inside.

She always wishes him luck before his appointments but Dean is never sure what she means by it.

4.  
It takes time but Dean makes it from the parking lot (the closest spot John could find) to the clinic’s lobby. Once he gets there however, he’s panting and sweating. It doesn’t take long for the staff to realize they need to get him off his feet and onto a bed.

The clinic’s gurneys are height-adjustable, with a range from waist-high to low to the floor like a trolley cart. At the press of a button a nurse can bring the gurney to any height in between, making it easier to get patients on and off of them. The gurneys are full-sized so that only the very fattest patients have trouble fitting, which merely means that their fat hangs off the sides. Plus, if necessary the gurneys can double as examination tables to minimize the amount of times a patient has to be moved. When John first found the clinic, he had scoffed at the high-tech gurneys and wondered why they didn’t just use wheelchairs like regular hospitals. But he only had to spend five minutes in the waiting room to see that the majority of their patients were far too fat for even the largest wheelchair.

When Dean’s bed is brought, the wheels are locked to keep the gurney stationary and then it’s lowered to a height equal with Dean’s knees. Nurses hover watchfully around him as he sits down, lays back, and scoots his way up until his body is correctly positioned. At that point the locks are released and he’s rolled off to the side of the waiting room while John checks in with the receptionist. Dean takes his chance to rest after the exertion of so much walking, accepting the nurses’ friendly belly rubs.

John grabs a magazine and takes a seat, glancing uncomfortably at the people waiting around him. They’re undeniably fat, John thinks, and yet Dean is easily twice as wide as the chairs they’re sitting in. Of course, Dean isn’t the only one who’s had to be loaded onto a gurney to await his appointment—there are other enormous patients lying on their backs like obese sitting ducks—but John can’t help feeling like his boy is the biggest.

5.  
When Dean’s name is called, a group of nurses hurry to wheel Dean to the examination room, with John trailing along behind.

The first thing they do once they get Dean in the exam room is strip him down. With well-coordinated teamwork they manage to shift and prod and lift his body enough to get his sweatpants shimmied down his legs and his shirt pulled over his head all while he lays motionless on the gurney. They fold his clothes and set them aside before taking their seats until they’re needed again.

Naked, Dean looks even bigger, just a sea of flesh oozing in every direction. His arms lay uselessly at his sides with his hands dangling off the edges of the bed. His legs are only visible from the calves down, everything else buried under a great sheet of flesh. Even his head seems drowned in fat, his cheeks and chin and neck so fleshy that they’re almost just one big doughy mass. John turns his attention to the posters on the wall instead, looks at diagrams of obese bodies and reads a list of exercises for immobile people, until the doctor comes in.

The doctor rarely speaks to Dean. Mostly he defers to John, like a veterinarian addressing the owner rather than the pet. But today he looks at his chart, rattles off the date of their last visit—not even two weeks ago—and then smiles. “Happy birthday, Dean,” he says, slapping his belly the way one might clap someone on the shoulder. “Sixteen years old. How about that?”

Dean says nothing; he just lays silent and still as his belly fat wobbles with reverberation.

“Learning to drive, getting a license….” the doctor goes on absently, turning back to Dean’s charts. “Although,” he amends solemnly, “you’re much too fat to fit in a car, let alone drive one.”

Dean stays silent but he can’t help smirking just a bit. He knows he should regret not being able to drive, and it’s certainly a shame the Impala will be handed down to Sam and not him, but the thought of being too fat for it is somehow so much more satisfying.

The doctor goes on to ask John about Dean’s eating habits (everything in sight) and physical activity (none). He wants to know how much time Dean spends eating and if John has seen much of a decline in his mobility. Then he and his team of nurses conduct the usual poking, prodding, and measuring that come standard in an examination. Dean has never actually been told what his measurements are but he wonders, with as often as John schedules him appointments, what it would look like if he were to make a graph with that information.

Finally the doctor steps back from his measuring tools and Dean knows it’s time for the only part of this that really interests him. “Alright, let’s get him weighed,” the doctor says, signaling his team to push Dean’s gurney to the room down the hall with the scale.

Dean feels a thrill go through him at the thought of finally finding out if he’s made it, if he can consider himself to truly be the beached whale he can’t help thinking about being. The thought occupies him for the entire trip to the scale, and it’s only when he feels the gurney being lowered that he realizes he’s arrived.

When the wheels are locked, Dean accepts help in sitting up and standing. He looks at the scale, a giant platform with a maximum capacity of half a ton, and feels another jolt in the pit of his stomach. He steps down from the gurney and begins to waddle forward one heavy, laborious step at a time, flanked by nurses ready to help if necessary. Slowly he makes his way across the spacious room, his flesh wobbling everywhere and hanging rolls of fat swinging with his exaggerated waddling steps. The nurses hover around him, trying not to impede his movement by crowding him but wanting to step in as soon as he requires help.

It’s only when he starts to pant and his waddling gets slower that he realizes how far from the scale the nurses parked his bed. Crossing the length of the room is more distance than he’s been willing to walk in years unless it was to get food. But he’s hungry for what he’ll get when he reaches the scale so he soldiers on, swaying heavily from side to side, his pendulous belly slapping against his thighs. Out of the corner of his eye he can see John in a chair, watching him waddle along with a look of horrified disgust. He knows he must look ridiculous, so incredibly fat, barely able to walk, much too young for it to be okay to be either, but he doesn’t care. Or he does care a bit – about being able to walk, at least— as he feels himself losing steam in his journey. He might need assistance to take the last few steps, and by the way the nurses are crowding in, he’s not the only one who thinks so. He reaches his arms out and accepts their help, letting one support him under each arm while two more go in front to lift his belly, supporting the weight of it and pulling it up so that it’s not impeding his movement by hanging between his legs. The way the nurses hold his gut, that apron of fat that sags all the way to his knees, it reminds Dean of bridesmaids carrying the train of a dress, if the train were so heavy that two muscled nurses had difficulty lifting it. Of course, his fat is also doughy and malleable, and seems to try to slip away as they pile it into their arms. But it’s certainly a great help, and they make it much easier for him to finally—finally—amble up onto the scale.

He’s so breathless and exhausted that he can barely lift his chunky leg to step onto the platform but the nurses push him forward, two more joining in by standing behind him and shoving against his mammoth ass until at last he makes the step.

Finally having waddled across the room and managing to have gotten himself on the scale, Dean is too tired at first to do anything but let himself be supported by the full team of nurses as he rests and gets his breath back. They give him some friendly pats on his belly, some in order to congratulate him for completing his journey and others in consolation for the difficulty he had with such limited mobility, but all well-meant and encouraging as he stands panting and sweating atop the platform.

Once he’s gotten his breath back, the doctor zeroes out the scale and sets it to record Dean’s weight. Dean watches the small screen where the read-out will be displayed, remembering how disappointed he had been when a week before he weighed only 594 pounds. He hadn’t been gaining intentionally, just indulging his natural gluttony and laziness as he always did, but he’d been dying to eventually see that number six on the scale as the first of three digits.

He doesn’t realize his eyes are squeezed shut until he hears the doctor say, “do you want me to tell you your weight or do you want to look?” Then he has a second of panic where he doesn’t _know_ which he would rather have. But he thinks about his fantasies of hauling himself onto a scale and seeing the dial shoot up to 600 pounds, of looking down at the bathroom scale and seeing those red, digital numbers. His eyes open and immediately lock on the scale’s read-out: 603 pounds.

“Six hundred and three pounds, Dean,” the doctor says. His voice is flat in a way that suggests Dean doesn’t need a disapproving tone to know that this is very serious. “You’ve reached the big six-oh-oh.”

Dean doesn’t miss the way John blanches when the doctor reads out his weight— apparently Dean’s not the only one for whom reaching six hundred pounds is a big deal. John looks like he can’t decide if he’s livid or flabbergasted, but Dean doesn’t know why he should be so surprised. He clearly looks like a six-hundred-pounder, tiredly waddling around, eating himself silly, so fat he can barely even get onto the scale that will tell him how fat he is.

“I have to say, Dean,” the doctor says, “I’ve never before had a patient who reached six hundred pounds before the age of sixteen.”

And that sends such a powerful jolt of arousal through Dean that it turns his insides cold. Sixteen years old and already so fat, already _six hundred pounds_. He would almost definitely be immobile by his next birthday, maybe even reach eight hundred pounds by his eighteenth. He could just keep going, get fatter and fatter until his entire body was just an enormous mass of lard, until he maxed out that half-ton capacity scale, until his weight was four digits instead of three.

“Get him onto the gurney,” the doctor commands, his voice sounding far off, much like the hands that gently guide Dean onto the bed and position him on the starched sheets.

It’s not until Dean’s on his back, staring up at the ceiling and being wheeled back to the examination room that it sinks in and he becomes aware of himself again. Then he’s able to cooperate the best he can as the nurses dress him in his sweatpants and T-shirt, but he still hasn’t regained enough strength to stand on his own. They compromise by wheeling him back into the waiting room, giving him some time to rest while the doctor gives John the usual post-examination talking-to about how this time Dean _seriously_ needs to lose weight and how he can always be committed to a full-time clinic when the Winchesters are unable to care for him any longer. Dean listens in as best he can, feeling deeply satisfied with the knowledge that he’s really properly super obese, a beached whale on a starched-sheet sea shore, surrounded by his six hundred pounds of blubber.

When John has been given a stack of pamphlets—topics ranging from weight management tips to advertisements for that full-time clinic—and there’s nothing more for the doctor to berate him about, the nurses lower Dean’s bed and carefully help him onto his feet, judging his ability to walk. If he has trouble, Dean knows he can be wheeled out to the car and probably lifted directly from the gurney to the platform of the lift without him having to move a muscle. He finds the notion exciting since he’s always been able to (slowly, waddlingly) make his way from clinic to van before, but now that he weighs over six hundred pounds there are concessions he’ll have to make. But he finds himself able to stand, perhaps helped along by the adrenaline of such an exciting doctor’s visit, and he does well when the nurses help him take a few steps away from the gurney. John goes to get the van, planning to pick Dean up at the entrance just in case he’s not strong enough to waddle back out to the parking lot. While he does so, Dean slowly shuffles forward, massive body tilting side to side with each step, waddling his way across the waiting room. John pulls the van up to the entrance and the nurses get Dean loaded in, giving him a few last pats on his belly. They seem to know that it won’t be long at all before Dean goes straight from the van to the gurney to the van again after his appointment.

6.  
When Dean gets home, struggling to wobble into the house and into his favorite armchair, he finds an unbelievable spread of sweets laid out waiting for him on the coffee table.

“I know you’re tired, baby,” Mary says, bending down to take off his shoes. “But I wanted to surprise you with a little treat to make up for having to go to the doctor on your birthday.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Dean says, eyes glued to the expanse of cakes, pies, cookies, and other desserts. He pulls up the recliner on the chair, letting himself be tilted back at an angle. It causes his belly to rise up in front of him like a mountain rising out of the sea. “Put them on my belly so I can reach them, will you?”

Mary obligingly chooses a few desserts for Dean to start with and arrays them on the swell of his gut where Dean can easily grab them and shove them into his mouth. “Before you get started, tell me how the doctor’s visit went. Did he weigh you?”

Dean struggles to keep the pride out of his voice as he reports that he’s finally tipped over six hundred pounds. He only barely manages to sound sheepish when he informs her that he’s the fattest sixteen-year-old his doctor has ever treated.

“Wow,” Mary says, serving another selection of pies and cakes to the shelf of Dean’s belly. “And you’re still growing!”


End file.
